I. Time Tunnel

Recently, I got a call from my friend Hank, the owner of “MotoHank”, a BMW motorcycle repair shop in Dilley, Texas, asking if I'd be interested in a quick trip into Mexico to Real de Catorce in the Mexican state of San Luis Potosi.

We'd ridden through there the previous October on a trip deep into Mexico to the Michoacan region. and ’twas a magical place. Hank's shop in Dilley puts him on a route from Mexico and South America into the U. S. and he gets a lot of international riders coming through. As well, Hank has spent years exploring Mexico and regions further south, racking up half a million miles on his 1995 R1100GS.

Being the trip junkie I am, I told him "YES" and that I'd spank anyone who tried to stop me. Hank had been tasked with testing a new suspension design for Touratech, an aftermarket company who produce expensive upgraded products for adventure motorcycles and he wanted to run it through everything possible in a short time frame - high speed freeway travel, heavy off-road usage, slow maneuvering and anything else that came along. Real De Catorce and the surrounding area would be a good place, including many miles of heavy duty cobblestone and rough dirt roads, not to mention the “topes” or as we call them, speedbumps, which are everywhere in Mexico.

Anyway it was a great excuse to go.

In my usual way, I waited until the day before leaving to frantically prep the motorcycle and get packed. I did a fair job of packing light, but I too, have been testing and refining some camera and video gear for travel and took a variety, so I had a bunch of extra crap.

Leaving my house outside Kerrville at about dark-thirty Saturday night, I reached Dilley and Hank's shop late in the evening. We grabbed a bite and then I crashed on his couch. Up early, we hit the road for Laredo, the International Bridge, and the potential hours of waiting to get the appropriate forms for Immigration and Vehicle permits. Unfortunately the 6 month window of my previous permits had expired a couple of weeks before this trip and we'd both had to run down to the border to turn them in. That now meant going through the process again as opposed to merely crossing and heading for the interior.

My 1998 R1100GS had been having a butt-fest of bad fuel mileage and I had not found the answer. Whereas I typically got about 40 mpg at highway speeds, my run to Dilley had only made 25 mpg, a real concern when your tank size is roughly 4.5 gallons of useable fuel. That night I pulled fuse # 5 and left it out overnight, doing a Motronic reset once again in the hopes it might make a difference. To Laredo, I managed to get an amazing 32 mpg. Blech. To some this may seem a non-issue, but where I ride, 150 miles or more to gas can be common. When your tank warning light pops on at 110 miles, it gets a little old...

At the border, we were lucky and managed to get simultaneous green lights at the entry meaning we didn’t have to stop and be inspected. Inmigración for travel visa and Aduana for temporary vehicle permits went reasonably quickly as well and we were cruising out of Nuevo Laredo and south by about 10:30 am.

This time, Nuevo Laredo lacked the sandbagged machine gun nests and heavy military presence we'd seen the previous October. It still feels good to get away from the border town and south as fast as possible however. Though we had to make serious time since we needed to cover about 500 miles that day, we took a few "libre" or free roads on the way rather than the tollways or "cuota", to see a bit more and get some photos of general random coolness.

We stopped at an old store for a Coca Cola break and shot a few photos.

Inside, an old man with rutted face and cowboy hat made the perfect model, but he began getting nervous and wigged out when Hank asked about taking his picture.

I was afraid to take a pic in the store, having visions of the old man snapping and coming at me with a machete - albeit slowly - but I did get a picture of the family quarters in the back

We scooted out and later Hank shared that folks get nervous when they're being photographed, as it can be common for the Mexican mafia to come in and photograph the possessions of owners, then return for a shakedown later.

All that drama and a bag of chips

We eventually passed the hazy, smoggy mountains surrounding Monterrey and squeezed through the mountain pass past Saltillo, catching the tollway southwest towards the next large town of Matehuala. My gas mileage improved as the elevation increased and the air was cool, roaring, rumbling and popping through my earplugs as we raced past abandoned roadside cafés, the crumbling facades painted brightly in super-saturated and fading colors of Corona beer, Carta Blanca or pretty much any paint that was available.

We passed endless roadside tire repair shacks, "Vulka" scrawled on walls or boards to advertise their service, horses and herds of goats grazing loose in the median between highway lanes, ropes of garlic and bags of onions stacked along the expressway, each vendor hoping to sell something in the desolate desert landscape. Thoughts of the difficulty of life for the locals, their hopes and needs pinned on sacks of onions and ropes of garlic along a blistering highway, with identical competitors spaced each half-mile down the highway. One had to keep concentration up, as the vendors often set their 50 lb bags well into the highway lane…

The tollways in Mexico are generally in excellent condition, the one we were on very fast and high with sweeping curves as it intertwined with the edges of the mountains to our left, that incredible sense of flying on the ground in beautiful sweeping motions flooding your senses.

After a couple of gas stops and cold belts of Coca Cola, we eventually reached the unmarked cut-off road for Cedral, a little town north of Matehuala and sped along the narrow blacktop road, rounding a curve at speed and sudden panic braking as a slew of goats spewed from the creosote bushes onto the road into our midst.

Passing through the edge of the little town of Cedral, we eventually reached the road to our destination of Real de Catorce. The road through the valley up to the old town, which sits above 9,000 feet, is made of rough cobblestone, approximately 14 miles long, and straight as an arrow for sections. It winds through the desert valley and then climbs high up the mountainside.

Real De Catorce means “Royal Fourteen”, and though legend speaks of the native Indians killing 14 Spanish conquistadors for which it was named, in reality it speaks of the fourteen mountains in the range, designated as royal property for the King of Spain since they were laden with silver, and of course, resultant silver mines for the king. The little town was at one point the richest in Mexico due to silver production and figured prominently in Mexican independence for that reason.

The remains of old stone buildings from that period litter the valley below, long ago abandoned. Now Real has become a time capsule and “Pueblo Magico” by the government, but it’s also famous for the indigenous Huichol indians, who made and still make annual pilgrimages to a sacred peak nearby known as the “Quemado”. The valley floor below the peak is known for peyote, the hallucinogenic plant that is still a part of the indigenous rituals, not to mention others who come to the area to experiment with the drug. Real is also known as the location for the classic Humphrey Bogart film “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” and more recently, the Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts film “The Mexican”.

The road takes a bit to get used to, as at first the large rutted cobblestones cause the motorcycle to wander and wobble, but one eventually settles into a rhythm. Can’t say the same for anything in the motorcycle cases, which will vibrate badly for the entire ride.

We stopped briefly in the remains of the small community of “La Luz” which sits at the base of the mountain, scrambling around piles of rubble for photos, neither of which is lacking in Mexico.

Continuing on up the cobblestones that climb the mountainside to the old mine tunnel one must pass through to enter Real De Catorce, we stopped a couple of times to take in the vistas of the valley below.

At the top of the climb, we were stopped by the guard and waited at the entrance to the tunnel leading through the mountain and into the town on the other side. The tunnel is an old mine tunnel that eventually was enlarged and made to pass through the entire mountain. It is only wide enough for one vehicle, so a guard is posted at each end to let traffic pass one-way only. My odometer showed it to be almost 2 miles in length.

All the charm in the world, including but not limited to, four silver front teeth… but Hank wasn’t buying from the vendor.

The 20 peso toll is paid to the tunnel guardian and then the progression into darkness and the damp, cold humidity of the 2 mile long tunnel. As you exit and burst into the blinding sunlight of a setting sun, the eyes adjust and it seems you've taken a time tunnel into the past. Steep and narrow cobble streets, stone buildings from the 17 and 1800's, street vendors in colorful stalls, horses and roosters, a mesmerizing mixture of light, shadow, stone and people.

On our previous one-day visit a few months earlier we'd stayed at a nice hotel, due mainly to the availability of a semi-level section of sidewalk upon which to park. The streets are very steep and narrow and it can be almost impossible to find a parking spot for a motorcycle. Simply negotiating the streets can be a real challenge in itself. On big heavy bikes, one has to use momentum when climbing and rounding a tight corner to find pedestrians or a stopped vehicle can literally leave you with no place to get a foot down on the very uneven cobblestone streets. The stones are highly polished from wear, and if wet, it would be a nightmare trying to ride there. Hank had visited once in a 4WD SUV after a rain, and the vehicle ended up sliding all the way down a steep street before crashing into a wall. Needless to say it would be a similar experience on a motorcycle.

Parking excuse or not, the hotel was an amazing little place, beautifully built within and upon the ruins of an old stone building. The architect did a great job of incorporating modern into the rustic stone and the rooms were very nice. It felt great to get off the bike and stretch, even better to breath in the cool mountain air of a new world, the setting sun raking ancient stone walls and polishing the cobble streets.

The area attracts Bohemian travelers, who often live in abandoned ruins and partake of the peyote in the valley below.

Dinner that evening was well appreciated, "pollo a la parilla" in my case, and mixed with nice conversation with a couple of other travelers at a nearby table, a girl from Belgium and another from Holland. Politics, travel and the beauty of Real were discussed, stopping just shy of religion.

More tomorrow mi amigos...

Continue to Part II

II. Desert Mountain Village

Sleep was fitful, the temp being somewhat cold with the wooden doors to the room being open to the street below and the sounds of horse hooves, braying donkeys and roosters throughout the night echoing in the narrow hardened streets.

I got up early and headed to the roof deck before dawn, observing the sleeping town in the cool blue of the early morning.

I wandered the streets in the early hours to breathe in the fresh air and take a few pictures. Hank eventually found me and we spent a while walking and shooting as the town slowly came alive.

Nice architecture in the hotel…

We were the only patrons in the place

At breakfast our new-found friends invited us to sit with them and were somewhat amused when I ordered "hotcakes" for breakfast, saying nicely how "American" to do so - little did they know I'd had them here before and they were truly excellent. In fact, they ended up ordering them as well and I had a chuckle.

Katlijn was from Belgium and Ariana from Holland - both had spent much time in Mexico, India and many other countries, traveling solo and together at times.

Hank and I’s riding plan for the day was to do a high mountain road descending down into the valley west of Real, followed by a long loop back, stopping for photos and deserted pueblos.

After breakfast, we all wandered outside and onto the street, the caballeros who offered horseback rides up to the sacred "quemado" kindly and persistently pursued with fervent sales pitches. A vendor selling handmade leather pouches offered too good of a deal and I managed to snag some native swag - a couple of small handmade leather pouches.

Hank and I geared up in the brightening sunshine, cranking the cold engines in the R1100GS's weak and wheezing way. I followed Hank down the street and to a stop, while he spoke to a local for directions, then we headed on through narrow, dust covered streets and alleys towards a rift in the mountains.

As Hank motored ahead, I made a quick momentary stop to turn off my ABS brake system since loose rock and dirt can wig out the system and you're then unable to stop. I’d made that mistake once and only once in Colorado and almost died.

A lone worker with a shovel sat at the edge a high bend in the narrow road and I waved to him as we passed, the curve opening up to a fantastic vista of a very steep valley, the drop being measured in thousands.

The road itself was very narrow, rough and dusty, cut like a scar on the side of the mountain.

Hank disappeared around the corner ahead and as I rounded the narrow curve, the view was stunning. The road was very narrow and steep, cut into the side of the mountain and covered in powder dust and chunks of loose rock. Much too close to the left lay a drop-off of hundreds or possibly thousands of feet. Ahead, I could see Hank's bike fishtailing in the rubble of a small landslide at the narrowest part of the road, a cloud of dust floating around him.

I'm no hero when it comes to heights, but the drop off the edge was breathtaking, and I kept it in my peripheral vision, feeling that inexorable magnetic pull extreme heights seem to exert. I kept focus on every piece of rock and rubble, every divot and pool of dust ahead, knowing how easily the front wheel of a GS is deflected. I slowed briefly to a short stop at the rubble patch I'd seen Hank in, wheeling through it slowly but with enough momentum for stability. That section of road was breath-taking and beautiful, and deadly with a mistake. The little white crosses along the way served as silent witnesses of what offered no chance of escape.

The High Road

Ahead, Hank had pulled to a stop at a wide spot waiting for me to catch up. For those who know Hank, he is a man of few words. When he bothers to speak it means something significant. When I rumbled up next to him, over the idling engines I heard him say "I almost went over the edge" in his calm and matter of fact way.

Later and further down the mountain, he told me his front wheel had bounced off a rock and he'd shot over to the edge, barely getting it turned back straight in time and missing the drop by less than gonads allow for. For those who don’t ride a big adventure bike, especially a 600 lb GS, they don’t respond quickly due to weight and have a tendency to do whatever they feel. A few inches may not sound like a close call, but on a big GS heading on its way, it’s a miracle Hank got the bike turned back. Even he admitted he couldn’t figure out how he did it.

Apparently the small cloud of dust I'd seen was the after effects of his momentary duel. Later review of Hank's GoPro footage revealed just how quick and close he came, and it's amazing that he was able to dab and change direction of the 600 lb pig just in time.

Hank's moment - keep your eye on the front tire…

I told him I was glad he hadn't taken the dive off the edge, as it would have messed up my trip on the very first day. But I did tell him I would have made a little cross for him to remember him by. As you can imagine, he was very thankful…

The narrow road continued its breath-taking way down the canyon, absolutely beautiful in the clear and cool sunlight of the morning. The ride down required constant attention as it was rough and rocky with no room for error, some areas better maintained and some very poor indeed. The condition of the road is always in question, sometimes very rough and dangerous, and sometimes in decent shape. One never knows until you commit… and then you’re committed.

Down the mountain, leap-frogging each other at photo stops, I eventually got a good distance ahead. Having stopped numerous times for pics, I turned off the bike in the middle of the road. When I tried to restart, the battery wheezed a few turns and went dead. Great. Anyway, I got it pointed downhill and slipped it into 3rd gear, allowing the speed to build a little before slipping the clutch and bump-starting the bike. All my stopping and leaving the headlight and running lights on had run down the battery.

We continued down, the road winding into shaded, cool, tightly twisting turns where small dwellings began to appear, nestled into the trees and hillside. Old Willys 4wd trucks were ubiquitous, as were old Ford pickups.

Rounding a corner and stopping suddenly at the sight of the narrow road ahead blocked, men were pouring fresh mortar and large rocks by hand onto the roadway. We sat and watched as they worked quickly, however the concrete and rock combination was fresh and under intense work and completely cut across the roadway. I couldn't see a way we'd get past, but eventually a man waved us down towards them and they threw some small rocks into a rut, creating a foot-wide bridge leading onto a narrow strip of loose dirt. Hank went ahead, but the problem was that the stone was very narrow and there was no place to put a foot down. He talked them into holding his bike up while he tried to cross the strip, eventually succeeding. I followed and got across easily with their help and slipped down the narrow path into the road.

Road crew

We continued on for quite some time, eventually entering small sand washes and open areas as we entered the valley for Estación Catorcé, the old rail station that served Real De Catorce and surrounding area.

From there we eventually made blacktop, opening up the revs and pegging the speedos heading further south for Estación Wadley. Rumor was there was an old train graveyard near Wadley and our hunt began. We found villages, the locals happy to point various directions, but we were never able to locate the locomotive rail site.

Eventually we turned back and returned due north, making a big loop back to Real in the afternoon, sweeping back through the old tunnel, something I never tire of…

Back on the coveted level-ish parking spot for the bikes in front of the hotel

After a late lunch, I wandered the town with my camera, huffing and puffing like a beached whale on the steep streets at 9000 foot in elevation, trying to snag images of locals in the light of the afternoon sun.

Leaning against a wall and getting my breath - cleverly disguised as a photographer simply waiting for a photo op - an old blue VW beetle containing a local driver, our two European friends and Hank puttered past. They were being taken on an excursion by the local guy to a lake in area. They stopped and invited me, but I declined, wanting to spend time in town photographing the place. Besides, ain't no way we'd ever all fit in a Beetle!

I explored the steep streets and the large church downtown.

On my way out to the old original church and cemetery on the edge of town, I passed an obvious looking American guy who didn't speak to me, then another guy suddenly appeared from a dusty alley next to a small store. I was about to say "Hola" but he froze in his tracks, eyes wide and staring at me very suspiciously. Spotting the few Euro or Norté Americano folks in town certainly isn't a challenge and despite his wearing the white pants and serape of the locals, his blonde hair, bushy beard and blue eyes gave him away. In fact, he looked like a Norwegian Viking wearing a Mexican peasant outfit in hopes of blending in... not.

At any rate, he fastened his eyes on me intensely and froze until I passed. Maybe he thought I was the fuzz, or maybe his peyote and oatmeal breakfast hadn't settled well, or possibly he thought he was seeing the first abominable snowman to enter the village. Who knows, but I decided speaking to him would be pushing it and wandered on, passing small houses, an open air bar replete with drunken locals and eventually the old bullfighting ring with its nearby bullet pockmarked firing squad wall.

Finally reaching the cemetery behind high stone walls, I walked the graveyard and stepped onto the stone entry of the old church.

As I neared the church door, a diminutive, weathered, older man in the local garb of cowboy hat and dirty jeans began speaking to me. I said "No habla espanol!" with a smile, feeling the usual flush of ignorance. He smiled with a big smile of large, unsightly yellow teeth and shadowed me into the church. I couldn't tell if he was just curious, or a guardian, but when I saw the partially restored ceilings and the ancient colorful decay, it was overwhelmingly beautiful to me. I said "muy linda!" to which he corrected me with "es bonita" and a big smile. I could tell he was proud of the church and could feel his beaming pride. I said "Como se llama?" and he replied "Alejandro". I said "me llama es Jose" and felt quite chuffed at my 6th grade Spanish skills.

The little church - Templo de Guadalupe as I discovered later - really was amazing to me in its state of partial decay and partial originality. Old original frescoes remained in fragments and one could tell this truly was a beautiful church in its time. I couldn't help but wonder what the reaction of the local indigenous peoples would have been seeing its beauty long ago.

I told Alejandro “gracias” and shook his hand, working my way back out and tiptoeing around the graves that literally were lining the path from the front step of the church out to the road.

Back on the dusty street I wandered into the old bull ring before managing to time my stroll to fall exactly in stride with the three drunken locals I'd passed at the bar earlier. Of course, one began slurring and speaking to me in Spanish to which I replied "No habla espanol!" with a big smile. It mattered not, as he began speaking quite intensely, as drunks do, speaking of what and waving his arms I have no idea, but I kept smiling and saying "Si".

He grabbed my arm and led me over to a fence overlooking the valley, saying "le tigre" and other things, of which I certainly understood "tiger". I momentarily tried to imagine how a tiger could possibly come up in any conversation on a dusty road in Mexico, but his animation and drunken excitement made me wonder for just a slight second if by some chance a tiger had escaped a circus and was living in a nearby field - much like the Viking man. Peyote was another factor I considered and looked back at the other two drunks for sympathy, but upon eye contact both began saying "le tigre" vehemently as well.

I decided I wasn't going to fall for the joke of locals convincing a tourist that there were tigers in Mexico, but I did default into my stupid tourist routine - amazingly similar to Jethro Clampitt - and just acted goofy. They weren't buying it and were quite intense that I understand. Eventually, one began pantomiming a large predatory cat with a paw curled and then one said "puma" and pointed out towards the valley. I looked out across the valley to a distant mountain cliff. It was then I saw that indeed, a cliff face somewhat resembled a cougar lying in wait. "SI!" I shouted, realizing they had been trying to show me that all along, and suddenly we were all happy. Sheesh what a relief.

They insisted I take a photo, which I did, and we all then wandered on towards town. You know, I really don't know why these things come my way, but I have to wonder what it looked like to someone else to see a giant guy with long grey hair, half dressed in motorcycle gear, on a dusty street near a cemetery and a small drunken Mexican man in cowboy hat pantomiming a vicious tiger. If anyone saw us, it was most likely the paranoid Viking...

"el tigre"

(I know, I know, but just act like you see it)

I wandered as the day grew late, climbing up the highest streets and to a place with three crosses overlooking the valley

From the three crosses I wandered down to the town plaza and sat a while, watching the locals until the increasing urge for a café de olla overwhelmed me. I’d grown to love the Mexican coffee, made in a boiling pot with sugar and possibly a hint of cinnamon.

Street vendor in his native Huichol dress

Dinner again was wonderful, “pollo somethinga pechuga”, again sharing the table with our traveling friends Katlijn and Ariana, hearing their stories of the quemado, peyote, curanderos and other aspects of "energy".

Hank shared that we were heading back down the mountain to the villages of La Luz and Potrero the next day to explore. Kat said she knew an artist in Potrero and would like a ride down to see him if possible.

Plans were made, hotels were retired to, photos were downloaded and GoPro footage perused until well after midnight.

More tomorrow amigos!

Continue to Part III

III. Flaming Hot Frijoles

Again, sleep was fitful and I was up early though a bit draggy. I got out with the camera and found a streetside cafe open, sipping a cappuccino while waiting for our breakfast rendezvous, a dusty dog my only companion. She was a sweetheart however, though quite insistent that I continue rubbing her neck and ears. No problem señorita, but I bet she'd learned not to take no for an answer from watching the caballeros and street vendors for many years.

Old Willys are pretty prevalent in the area - not just in Real but a lot of the surrounding villages

Eventually I saw Kathlijn cross the street into the restaurant and Hank a couple moments later. At breakfast, Kat said she definitely wanted to ride down to Potrero with us, despite having made a promise to her departed father at an early age she would never ride a motorcycle. There was a small discussion as to whether “technically” the promise covered riding one herself, or if it included being a passenger. Whether the story was true or not, it added some drama and she was excited to go. We said we'd stop by her hostel on the way out and pick her up.

Kat headed up the steep streets to collect her doodads, while we geared up and fired up the bikes. Motoring off the hotel sidewalk and down the steep street to begin working uphill to her hotel, she suddenly came running around the corner, much to my chagrin. Getting from our hotel up to the higher level streets was always a challenge, with very sharp off-camber uphill turns and the cobbles were heavily rutted on the route due to vehicles having to accelerate hard.

I had hoped to get through the tricky part before adding a passenger... Hank's smirk said "Good Luck Captain Kirk" and he motored away. Kat climbed on board, got settled and we headed off into the cobble streets and up the steep hills. Ensuring that I stay upright in the steep turns, I kept the speed up a bit and swung wide in a couple of turns, coming close enough to spook a couple of locals, myself included. I had rarely carried passengers, which dynamically change the handling on a bike at slow speeds especially, and Real De Catorce is not a place to practice!

Two up thru Real to the Tunnel

As we reached the tunnel, the guard waved us past and when we hit the cool humidity of the darkness and the pulsating lights, I heard Kat yell out "Wow this is great!!!" and I finally relaxed a bit. When we exited 2 miles later into the sun, to an incredible valley vista she again shouted out. The ride down was slow and controlled for her benefit, but it was a lot of fun enjoying another's enthusiasm.

We stopped in the small village of Potrero, located in the valley beneath Real and shot some pics, Kat having brought her camera as well. Hank had been asked by the suspension manufacturer to write a short review of the product and also requested pics of him, along with his own photography, so I've been shooting images of Hank along the way in various locales and situations.

MotoHank and his 1995 BMW R1100GS, Potrero, S.L.P.

We slowly motored along in the village until Kat spotted her artist friend Manuel. He waved and greeted her, then we were invited to his house and workshop. He had a great little house, his artistry displayed in many forms, from wooden furniture to handmade knives and things in between.

Entrance to La Casa de Manuel

Workshop

After the house tour and conversation, Hank asked about some ruins near the town and Manuel directed us which way to go. Kat had planned to stay with him, but asked if she could come along to the ruins. Katlijn was a photographer as well, having shown us some of her work at breakfast that day. She was interested in photographing the ruins as well.

We headed out on a dirt street which quickly disappeared into single track, then into nothing but rocks and cactus. Nothing like baby-head rocks and off-road terrain with a fully loaded GS and a passenger. Luckily Kat was oblivious to the difficulty and enjoyed the experience.

After a while of scattering horses and burros we spotted the ruins ahead. The old building had been a train station for the mines at some point, the steel rails having disappeared long ago. Luckily the temp was a little cool, the sunlight filtered by very high clouds, which in a way made the entire place feel very surreal, the light being very different than normal.

Two up to the ruins

Train cars ran on rails in the ditch, ore being loaded into the top

Exploring and shooting around the place for a while, “comida” became the order of the day. After a bit of doing to get the bikes turned around in the loose rocks, the ride back out was a bit hairy and I almost dumped it in the loose gravel of a water crossing.

When we got back to Potrero for a Coke to cool off, Manuel had sent word through a local that he had been cooking frijoles and wanted us to come to his home again and have lunch.

We ended up spending the afternoon eating flaming hot spiced frijoles with cabrito (which looked suspiciously like sliced up Oscar Meyer weiners) talking about art, photography, music, energy, his 4 foot long dreadlocks and the custom work he does on most anything.

Actually there was cabrito in the soup and the fresh-off-the-stove-burner tortillas were great

Manuel produced several large knives he'd made for customers, using very old machete blades with new exotic wood handles and inlays. He also made a lot of rustic and simple furniture designs.

I located a leather sheathed machete on his mantle, the blade making the most amazingly movie-like "shingggg" sound as it came out of the scabbard. The whinging blade became a source of entertainment for the afternoon, at least for me, and the others probably played along - after all, I did have a machete... The blade was very old and worn, with a U. S. manufacturer's name stamped or engraved in it. Manuel explained that custom knife and machete purchasers highly coveted the old U.S. made steel that had been brought into Mexico in the 1800’s and 1900’s as common steel for machetes, knives and tools for farmers. Much of it was still in the hands of old farmers naturally, so Manuel sourced the prized steel from locals, the deal being that he would make them a new custom knife for every 10 old knife blades they brought him. It was a fair way for them to get a new custom knife and Manuel said he was able to cull a couple of blades out of every 10 for his business.

Manuel was an interesting guy, having worked in the movie industry in Monterrey and also his father's business, alternating a few months of work with some time spent in Potrero in his art workshop, isolated from all distractions of the modern world. A great host, opening his home, making killer strong coffee from fresh hand-ground coffee beans and cooking for us - a true gentleman. Even after two weeks of pooping fire from the unbelievably hot peppers he used in the beans, I still considered him a gentleman.

We still wanted to explore a bit more, having spotted a road and old church sitting on a hill outside La Luz on our way to Potrero. Manuel insisted we stop at the "store" on the way out to have our picture taken by him. He had a series of photos of interesting people he'd met always photographed at the same spot.

The store turned out to be the little shed selling Cokes, chips and candy on the main street.

We had a laugh taking pics of him, taking pics of us…

Some discussion ensued later as to whether he had the legs to pull off a tribal skirt or not

The Mod Squad, complete with our first groupie, Humberto

As the shadows lengthened, we knew it was time to go searching in earnest before the light was gone and said our goodbyes.

I handed my camera to Kat and tasked her with shooting images from the back of the bike.

Leaving Portrero by Kathlijn

Heading to back to the village of La Luz and up a dirt road seeking a church perched high on the mountainside, we climbed higher and higher. We continued, never finding the access road to the church above despite passing just beneath it.

At one switchback, an old, white mini-bus was parked and I was informed by Kat that it belonged to "Miguel", a friend of theirs from the hotel.

We decided to forge ahead to see if we could find the crest of the mountains we were in, eventually ending up in high valleys and looking down on stone fenced corrals and ruins below. Hank said it reminded him of the high plains in Bolivia.

Our travel led us into land with no signs of humanity other than stone fences.

The sun was getting low, the wind was blowing and the remote beauty was engaging.

Not a soul in sight but the three of us.

The remote solitude of the place made the perfect location for Kat to excuse herself and take a potty break. She disappeared around a curve as Hank and I looked the other way. Moments later we heard a squeal and saw Kat walking quickly and fiddling with her clothes, just as a lone local man on a little moto came riding past. Impeccable timing on his part, but we all laughed at his sudden appearing at the worst possible moment.

Hank asked the guy what lay ahead and he said there was a village at the end of the road a few miles ahead.

Mountain Road Montage

We continued on a ways along the ridge tops, but as the sun got pretty low we turned back not wanting to be caught after dark. Hank and I were determined to find the end of this new road, but not this day…

Eventually we got back to the switchback where Miguel's white mini-bus was parked and Kat left a note for him on the windshield.

As we passed the old church again, we finally spotted the access road climbing steeply to it, so deeply rutted from rains that we’d passed it, assuming it was a rain ditch. The day was late and none of us had the enthusiasm to hike up the rutted way to the church, so it too was left for further exploration some day.

We rumbled through La Luz again, then the rattly cobble road up the mountain and into the musty tunnel we’d come to love.

We all met at the little cafe which served cheap gorditas, and while discussing all manner of things, a white dusty minivan came around the corner. Kat and Ariana shouted and waved at the driver to park and dine with the group on crunchy gordita goodness. Turns out it was "Miguel', whose van we'd passed on the mountain road and it also turned out "Miguel" is actually "Mikhail", a painter from Latvia who has been spending a long time in Real, going out into the mountains to paint. Miguel was quiet natured but friendly and laughed a lot - very nice guy to be around.

Turned out to be a great day of riding, exploring and relaxing.

More tomorrow amigos

Continue to Part IV

IV. The Return

The day for leaving Real had come. I wanted to stay, as did Hank, but he'd gotten many messages of bikes on the way to his shop and had to get back. The original plan was for two days in Real and we stuck with the plan.

"El LeatherPouchMan" found Hank at breakfast, having made a custom one the previous evening sized for specific doodads.

Our new friends Katlijn and Ariana had breakfast with us again and wanted to see if we could give them rides to the town of Matehuala on our way out, to spare them a long, slow bus journey. We had no problem doing so, other than having no helmets which are required in Mexico, and the fact Hank had removed his back seat for this trip. A pile of clothes was substituted for a back seat and Ariana climbed aboard his bike, Kat clambering on board the back seat of my bike.

El Cerdo Rojo awaits

We rumbled out of town and through the tunnel, the remorse of leaving tinged with the need for speed. The curse of motorcycle travel. That joy of discovery and yet the need to remain moving, the soul soothed by the flow of wind and weaving roads ahead. All too shortly, we were down the mountain and through La Luz, then past Potrero and onto the long straights of the cobblestone highway. The higher speeds smoothed the staccato of the cobble, though I felt a bit sorry for our two passengers.

Cedral came too soon as well and we pulled in for gas, each of us hitting the ATM for a few extra pesos. From Cedral we had a tense moment as a Federale police car passed us, both girls without helmets, but he didn’t stop us. We made it to Matehuala without incident and circled the plaza in the thickening traffic, stopping to deposit our fellow travelers Ariana and Katlijn and get some refreshments before putting in the ear plugs, cinching down and preparing to head out onto the highway.

We said goodbye to our fellow adventurers Kat and Ariana, wished them well and were officially christened “cool motorbiking guys” with goodbye waves as we wove our way out of town and to the highway north.

MX 57 was a fast and furious ride back to Monterrey, the winds as we neared the mountains hitting with a punch, a pop and push to the other lane. Monterrey was thickly clouded in haze and smog and descending into the city's 100 degree heat felt like a furnace compared to the cool air of the previous days in Real.

At a weary and late lunch break, Hank said he wasn't sure whether to head on into Nuevo Laredo and sit in the long lines back into the U.S., or to detour 30 miles out of the way and up to the Colombia International Bridge crossing. Either way it was a wash, but I said I'd rather be moving than sitting still in the heat, so we headed for the Colombia crossing.

At the border, there was only one other vehicle besides our two bikes. We didn’t stop to exit Mexico since our permits and visas were for 6 months, other than paying the toll to cross the bridge back to the U.S. I watched as the Border Patrol agent motioned Hank ahead to the booth and wondered what questions he was being asked. I saw him dismount and open a side case the man tapped on, a brief cursory look all that was required, then Hank gearing back up and moving on as the agent motioned me forward.

He was nice enough, asking for my passport and where I'd been, tossing some general questions and slipping in a quick "What day did you go into Mexico?", which seemed to be the trigger question for detainment and further questioning if I'd answered differently than Hank. He tapped loudly on my side case and asked me to open it, please. I stepped off and opened the case, unzipping the bag liner and lifting out my GoPro case at which point he said "Fine." He asked me about the bike and seemed genuinely interested in the concept of adventure riding. When I told him the year of my bike and the low entry fee for that model. his eyes perked a bit. After saying thanks, I pulled on out and caught stride with Hank's bike out onto the tollway that leads to I-35 North and home.

Shortly after reaching speed, we passed under the camera stations and I knew I'd be getting a nice letter and bill from Texas Tollways, as I do not have a toll tag.

Hours of high speeds and hard winds, followed by the intense heat of the border region began to make its effect known and I began to feel dehydrated and weary. We raced on at about 80, my fuel light coming on about 25 miles from Cotulla and I sweated literally and mentally until we exited for gas and fluids. I grabbed two bottles of orange juice and a water, guzzling all three as the light began to fade.

Hank's exit for Dilley was a few miles up the road and I felt somewhat envious, knowing I had another two and a half hours ahead to make Kerrville by way of Bandera.

We geared up and hit the highway, the light fading with distant lightning on the horizon the direction I was heading. At eighty miles per hour, the exit for Dilley came up and I pulled alongside Hank, giving a thumbs up as he peeled off like a wingman in a fighter plane. I checked mirrors, tucked in and hoped the rainstorm I saw was not on my way home, despite it lying directly where I was headed.

It was dark by the time I reached the I-35 exit I needed for Devine. I was bushed and knew I had to go slow from that point on due to all the deer on the back roads, so I took a break and topped off with gas. Against my wishes, I had to settle for a McDonald's fish sandwich and Coke, leaning against the bike in the dark with my ears ringing from 10 hours and more than 500 miles on the road. I watched the local customers file in and out, feeling their awkward, unspoken tension at having to walk past the sunburned, smelly, long-haired man on his strange motorcycle. Hee hee.

A Hispanic man in his pickup struck up conversation while his wife went inside to play with Mickey D. He asked if the bike was a Triumph and when he found out I'd just come in from Mexico he responded with incredulousness. "Man, you're lucky you didn't get killed down there!" he said. I just smiled.

Despite my fatigue and desire to be home, it still felt good to ride in the cool darkness at a slower pace. I stayed alert for the ever-present armadas of deer, reaching Bandera in the dark. I cruised slowly through in the darkness, hearing the loud shouts of a few Harley riders on the sidewalk, undoubtedly fueled by alcohol.

Nearly an hour later, I was finally coasting down my gravel driveway in the darkness and stopping under the carport, my headlight illuminating the river in front of my house. I killed the engine, took off my helmet and sat on the bike in the dark, listening to the tink and pop of exhaust pipes as they cooled down in the night air.

It was a great trip.

Adios my friends!